Dirge
by Jennifer N
Summary: He doesn't recognize himself anymore. AU futurefic, Jim POV. Warning: Character death. COMPLETE


**Title:** Dirge

**Summary:** "He doesn't recognize himself anymore." Jim POV. Warning: Character death. 1/1

**Category:** Angst, Character Death

**Spoilers:** References made through 3-22, "Beach Games." AU after that. No spoilers for the season finale.

**Rating:** PG-13/Teen for a few swear words.

**Disclaimer:** _The Office_ does not belong to me.

**Dirge**

He turns off the alarm on his cell phone and wearily pulls himself into an upright position. The television is still on, last night's basketball game now this morning's breaking news, traffic, and weather. He turns it off with a snap and tosses the remote onto the sofa beside him.

A shower wakes him up enough to realize that she has already been here this morning, has already left for the day. His wife. Estranged wife. Soon-to-be ex-wife. Karen. _does she even need a label anymore?_

He puts on a crisp white shirt and the black suit he rummaged through the closet last night to find, expressly for this purpose. He pours a cup of coffee in a travel mug and starts the engine of his sedan _never needed a minivan_ and has to consciously _not_ drive towards the train station he would normally be going to at 6:25 on a Tuesday morning.

It's a long drive, marred by stupid drivers and inane chatter on the radio, but eventually the state of Pennsylvania and later the town of Scranton are welcoming him. He travels down the streets he used to know so well, still surprised when something—a torn-down gas station, a new strip mall—doesn't match up with his memories of long ago.

He passes by the turn-off to the Scranton branch—closed for the next few days, anyway—and keeps going, past a few restaurants _Chili's_ and a skating rink he would like to forget. He puts on his left turn signal and notices that he still arrived with plenty of time for the service to begin.

He stands awkwardly in the line, inching closer to the front, listening to the conversations around him. Things like "such a tragedy" and "gone too soon" ring in his ears. When someone asks him his relationship with the deceas—with _him_, not that other word, because what the hell is he doing in a funeral home, of all places—he mutters something about them working together years ago.

He doesn't say they were friends, he realizes as he winds his way through the line. He doesn't say he used to be the emergency baby-sitter, or that he was an usher at his wedding, or that the lifeless body in the coffin is the person who got him his job in Scranton _and just look where _that_ got him, loveless marriage, office with a great view that he hates, the beginnings of gray hair_.

He fucking said they used to work together. _And isn't that typical of the new Jim Halpert? Nothing matters but work, right? Right?_

He arrives at the front of the line and mumbles condolences and holds out his arms to his honorary niece when her face crumples up _again_ and she sobs freely on his _not-so-crisp after all that driving_ white shirt.

And that's when he sees her.

He doesn't get more than a split-second view of her in his peripheral vision, and yet . . . he would know her anywhere.

Oh, sure, he knows that any reunion between the two of them won't consist of daisies and rainbows and declarations of love and longing. _There's no coal walk this time._ But, he thinks to himself as he sits down next to Phyllis and Bob Vance _Vance Refrigeration_, there are still a few things he would like to get off his chest. _about ten years too late_

He tries to listen attentively to the service, but his mind won't focus, won't stop whirring and remembering things and events and _feelings_ that have been buried for too long. He doesn't recognize himself anymore, he realizes. He's a closed-off workaholic who would never be seen organizing an office Olympics _detrimental to the bottom line_ or playing pranks on an annoying colleague _childish, immature_ or staying quiet all day because of a "jinx" and an empty soda machine _just stupid_.

If this was his funeral, would anyone come? _Even Michael's here—Jan probably made him—but it's doubtful he would step foot in a place to remember the guy who stole his job._ And if they did come, would anyone have a truly good memory to share that wasn't already dusty and faded?

It's this thought that haunts him as the service ends, as the coffin is placed into the hearse _he should have been a pall bearer, not the ex-wife's new husband_, as he follows a minivan down the road to the cemetery. He sees her—_her_—step out of the minivan and link hands with the driver and he has to sit there for a moment and wait for them to get ahead of him, wait for them to be too far away to notice him getting out of his _corporate_ car and walking to the opposite side of the gathered crowd.

It's not like her marriage is a surprise to him. He didn't hear the news from her, but he did get an email one day from someone else in Scranton, giving him a heads-up. _"OMG this is amaaaaazing! After 19 tries, I introduced Pam to a guy that is totally great and she even liked him and they are sooooo cute together and will have beautiful babies!"_

She was right about one thing, he thinks ruefully. The baby was even adorable in a grainy picture in the Dunder-Mifflin: Scranton newsletter. _The newsletter that someone helpfully mailed to him, along with the suggestion that Corporate approve the job-sharing option for their receptionist position._

He looks around, at all the unfamiliar faces, at all the faces that he used to see Monday through Friday, eight hours a day _or more if there was a screenplay to table read or a booze cruise to go on_.

He sees a family.

And that, he realizes, is what's been missing for so long in his life. Not because he only celebrates Father's Day by calling up his old man, not because he'll soon be in another bachelor pad.

But because he slipped away in the darkness one fateful night, lips still burning from finally kissing her. He packed his bags and told his roommate he was being transferred and began work in Stamford the next Monday. And even though he came back, even though he chatted with everyone and played a few pranks _Dwight and Andy deserved every one of them_, it wasn't the same. _He_ wasn't the same.

And she called him on it. She called him on it, in front of Michael, and Dwight, and Angela, and Ryan, and Kelly, and Phyllis, and Stanley, and—and—and _Karen_, and then she mumbled an excuse about her burning feet and going down to the water's edge. And he didn't go over to talk to her, and she didn't expect him to, and Karen looked more confused than ever because he had never gotten around to connecting all the dots about 'JimandPam' and what Angela meant by Pampong. _despite five nights of nonstop talking_

The bus ride back to the office was much more subdued _no cartoon theme songs_ and he sped off in his _non-company_ car _the car he was still making payments on_ before anyone could capture him in a conversation. He kept a low profile for the next few days, staying out of the office most of the time under the guise of sales calls. He and Karen drove up to Corporate on Thursday and made a long weekend of it. He got the offer Friday afternoon.

And that was that. Corporate needed him immediately, and there were few reasons to linger in Scranton _for a second time_. So he did it. He made a clean break _except Karen went with him_. He threw himself into his new job, not because he enjoyed it, but because it was a distraction; it was easier than reliving the best and worst years of his life.

It was easier than living with the fact that if he had just gone down to the water's edge, if he had talked to her . . . everything would be different. _He_ would be different.

And he would be a member of the family, not a long-lost, distant relative, the kind who receives polite nods instead of big, bear hugs.

He finally receives his first hug as the crowd slowly scatters, from a woman whose black dress is accented by a bright pink scarf.

"Oh my God, I didn't know you would be here!" she squeals, hugging him again.

"Well, when my secretary told me . . ." he trails off. "I mean, come on. For—for _him_, I had to be here. I had to."

"That is so _sweet_, that you still remember the little people," she enthuses.

"That's not how I think of any of you," he protests. At her pointed look, he blurts out, "When I left Scranton . . . it was just time to try something new, move to a new place."

She smiles and nods, her eyes disagreeing. He exchanges hellos with a few others as he makes his way back to his parked car. His eyes rest on the empty spot near his. If he had had the chance, what would he have said? What _could_ he have said, after all these years?

"Hey Jim," a voice calls behind him.

"Kevin," he turns and shakes his hand, slaps him on the back.

_What could he have said, after all these years?_

"You just missed Pam," Kevin tells him.

"Yeah. I just missed her."

---fin---


End file.
